


Lightning and Flames

by gracedameron



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Fires, Gen, M/M, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Running Away, Smoking, This is pure angst, Thunder and Lightning, Thunderstorms, buttons and elmer make little cameos too, not really but i'll add that tag just in case, the major warnings are for anxiety, the other boys just make little cameos, there's some warnings for this one, this is mostly about Race and a little about Jack and Spot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 11:13:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13212558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracedameron/pseuds/gracedameron
Summary: Racetrack Higgins is scared of two things: Lightning Storms and Fires.





	Lightning and Flames

**Author's Note:**

> i put it all in the tags but there's a lot of anxiety and angst in this one!! nothing too graphic, though!
> 
> this whole long fic was inspired by the ONE LINE in newsies where Race says "aw man, them fire sirens kept me awake all night." smh.

*

He was six years old. Too young. 

When you’re six you can barely tie your boots or write your name, let alone comprehend the gravity of losing everything you know and everyone you love.

But little Anthony Higgins was a smart kid. 

When he woke up one summer evening to the smell of smoke, he knew that it meant something bad was happening. He felt his skin crawl at the sounds of crashing thunder and cracking lightning outside his tiny bedroom window of the room he shared with his siblings. Lightning crackled across the sky and the smell of smoke intensified until Anthony was coughing into his shirt, trying to breathe. 

“Mama??” he cried out. Whenever he had bad dreams or woke up in the middle of the night, he’d call for her, and she always came. “Mama!” 

Anthony slipped off the mattress and ran over to the door, surprised to find the doorknob hot to the touch. 

“Mama!” he shouted, squeezing his eyes shut as he opened the door, ignoring that the brass handle burned as he grasped it. 

Anthony’s little blue eyes were filled with flames as he looked down the hall of his apartment building, tearing into his parent’s bedroom to find his father and his mother hurriedly packing bags, his father running from the room to the room where Anthony’s siblings slept. 

“Mama!” he cried, burning tears streaming down his face.

Anthony’s mother knelt next to him and kissed his cheeks. 

“ _ Antonio _ !!” she cried, lifting the boy into her arms and opening the window to the fire escape, “I need you to run very, very, fast and very, very far.” she said, kissing his cheeks more. “Go very far from the building.” her words were deadly serious, and Anthony rubbed at his stinging eyes. 

“I’m scared ‘a the storm.” he whimpered, “Mama!” 

“I know,  _ Tonio _ ,” she said gently, “It’s alright,  _ bambino _ . Mama and Papa will be right behind you.” She carefully ducked his head with her hand and stuck the little boy on the fire escape, coughing into her arm as smoke filled the room. “Go now! Run!” 

“No!” Anthony cried, “I don’t wanna.” 

“You have to,  _ bambino _ ,” Anthony’s mother had tears in her eyes. “You love running, show me how fast you can run.” She coughed again. 

“Like a race?” Anthony sniffled, his blonde curls getting soaked by the rainstorm around him, jumping as another crash of thunder echoed around him.

“Yes!” his mother said, coughing once more. “Run fast,  _ Tonio _ , win the race!” 

He ran.

He ran until the rain stopped.

He ran until he couldn’t see the building or the flames anymore.

He ran until he couldn’t  _ run _ anymore. 

Anthony finally sat down, soaked to the bone and smelling of ash and smoke. He curled up in the corner of an alley, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them tight. 

He caught his breath and waited for his Mama and Papa. He was tired from running, his throat hurt and eyes stung from the smoke, and he desperately wanted to take a nap, but he couldn’t. 

The fire sirens kept him awake all night long.

*

He was ten years old and had just been arrested for the third time. Ten was pretty young to have served two, now three, sentences in The Refuge, but Anthony _Racetrack_ Higgins had learned how to be a grown up pretty quick. He was no stranger to trouble and mischief and running from the cops. Actually, _Racetrack_ ran from everyone. He never stuck around places very long, including The Refuge. 

“Ay, why’s it they call’s it a  _ Refuge _ anyways? Ain’t that supp’sed to mean it’s safe ‘o somethin’?” Race asked one of his bunkmates, a boy with a nasty looking black eye who couldn’t be too much older than him. 

“Dunno. They’s prob’ly doin’ it so’s the folks out there don’ know it’s act’ally hell.” 

Race snorted. “Yeah.” he shrugged. “Don’t think no one would care though, do ya?” 

“Doubt it.” 

Race nodded in agreement. “Ain’t no one out there what cares ‘bout kids like us.” 

“Guess not.” 

“I’s sick of endin’ up in ‘ere, Jackie.” Race sighed, leaning against the wall next to the boy. He wasn’t sure if  _ friend _ was the right word for Jack, who Race had met his last time in The Refuge. Part of Race was glad that Jack was still there, and he had a familiar face to share the hell house with, but the other part of him was crushed that Jack hadn’t gotten out yet. 

“You an’ me both, Racer.” Jack sighed, “How long you’s stayin’ this time?” 

Race gave Jack a grin. “Snyder an’ the coppers says I’s supp’sed to spend three months. I ain’t gonna stick ‘round more ‘n a week, though.” 

“Sure you ain’t.” Jack smiled back a little. “You’s lucky you’s fast. Snyder was  _ real mad _ last time ‘ya left.” 

Race paled a little, eyeing Jack’s bruised eye. “How mad?”

Jack shook his head, looking away. “Don’ worry ‘bout it.” 

Race felt his stomach turning. “Jackie I-” He reached over for Jack, who flinched away from his touch immediately.

“I said  _ don’ worry ‘bout it _ .” Jack insisted. “You’s better off outta here.” 

“So’s you.” Race told him, “You’s braver ‘n most, Jackie. Butcha don’t gotta stay ta protect them other kids, you’s oughta protect yaself.” 

Jack gave Race a smile. “Don’t you be worryin’ bout me kiddo. You’s got enough ta worry ‘bout all on ya own.” 

Race shrugged. “Guess so.” he eyed Jack warily. 

“I’s almost out anyways,” Jack added, “Only a few more weeks. An’ then I’s gonna get outta here for good.” 

“Good.” Race said with a nod. “Maybe we’ll see’s each other outside’a this place.” 

“Maybe.” Jack said with a little smile. 

That night, Race, Jack and the three other boys that shared their small bunk, were sleeping peacefully, until a sudden thunderstorm interrupted the summer evening. Race’s eyes sprung open at the first sound of thunder in the distance and he felt dread growing in his stomach as the storm rolled in. 

_ Go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep. _

Race couldn’t. 

Jack woke up too when he heard Race crying into the balled up dirty shirt he’d been using as a makeshift pillow. He pretended to still be asleep as Race carefully got out of bed and curled up into a ball in the corner of the crowded room, trying to stay as quiet as possible. Jack was going to roll over and go back to sleep but he couldn’t help but feel bad as he listened to the younger boy’s whimpers and sobs. A lightning flash lit up the crowded, dirty room and Jack could make out Race’s shaking form in the corner. 

“Racer?” Jack whispered, crouching down next to his friend, kicking a rat away from them, making it hiss. “You okay?” 

Race shook his head, pressing his face into his knees as he pulled them up to his chest. 

“What’s ‘sa matter?” Jack asked, putting a very, very gentle hand on Race’s shoulder. 

“C-can’t sleep.” Race whispered, face still hiding in his knees. Lightning struck again and thunder boomed and Race’s shoulders shook. 

“I can’t sleep eitha’,” Jack said quietly, even though he did want to go back to sleep. “I’ll stay wit’ you’s, if that’s okay.” 

Race nodded. Jack kept his hand on Race’s shoulder until the younger boy stopped shaking. They waited out the storm together, until the rain passed and the thunder ceased. Racetrack fell asleep with his head buried in his knees, with Jack’s arm around his back. He didn’t stay asleep, waking up from nightmares filled with flames and smoke every time he settled down. 

Jack noticed, but didn’t say anything. They all had nightmares. He didn’t know what Racetrack’s were about, but it didn’t matter. All Jack knew was that like him, Racer was alone. And he really needed a friend. 

*

He was thirteen years old and things were great. He’d stayed clear of The Refuge thanks to Jack keeping tabs on him, and the two of them got jobs together selling newspapers of all things. Now Race lived and breathed papes. He’d become a master salesman in just a few short weeks of practice. He was in luck that he already knew the ins and outs of the city pretty well, knowing the busiest areas and how to get folks’ attention and telling them what they wanted to hear. To make it even better, he had someplace nice to live, where he had his own bed and shelter from the elements. They even had a little heating in the winter. There were lots of other boys who lived at the newsboy’s lodging house with Jack and Race, so they quickly made lots of friends. 

Race was slowly learning to trust people. He stopped running away and no longer had to choose between fight or flight. He was finally starting to get comfortable. He liked his routine, he liked his friends, he liked selling papes and he liked having money to buy things so he didn’t have to steal. It was nice not having to be constantly looking over your shoulder, and even nicer to have people looking out for you. 

He’d been living in the lodging house for a little over a year. He sat in their small living area with Jack and Crutchie while Albert attempted to make something to eat in the kitchen with Romeo’s help. Boys milled in and out constantly, so the noisy house was always fairly hectic and busy. 

Race noticed it first. He smelled smoke, and immediately felt his heart rate rising instinctively, much to his dismay. 

“Jackie?” Race asked, feeling himself getting jittery. 

“Yeah?” Jack looked up from the sketch he was doing on the back of a day old paper. 

“You smell that?” 

Jack frowned, sniffing at the air. He did smell that. 

“Ay, Albert!” Jack shouted, “You burnin’ somethin’??” 

Jack groaned as he didn’t get an answer and stood up from where he’d been sitting on an overturned crate that was kinda close to a chair, Race following him into the kitchen. Jack shook his head as he found Albert and Romeo wrestling on the kitchen floor, ignoring the eggs that Albert was supposed to be scrambling on the stove. 

“Dammit, Albo!” Jack yelled as the scrambled eggs crackled to black crisps, low red flames igniting on top of the egg-crisps. “You’s tryin’ ta burn the place down??” 

Race stood in the doorway of the kitchen, wide-eyed as he stared at the little flames on the stovetop. They were quickly put out by Jack expertly smacking at them with a dishtowel and then dumping a cupful of water onto the pan, causing it to sizzle and hiss as steam rose from the now-put-out flames. It was a tiny fire at best, the crisis was averted, and there was little reason to panic. Jack only seemed midly annoyed. 

But Race couldn’t breathe. He felt his heart thudding in his chest, the smoke filling his nose and eyes still trapped on the flames that weren’t even lit anymore. He knew they weren't there, but the image of the flames in the lodging house kitchen were trapped in his head and they grew and grew.

“Racer?” Jack asked, looking at his friend with concern after rinsing the pan out once more.

Race tore his gaze from the sizzling pan and looked to Jack, expression full of pure panic. 

“You okay?” Jack asked, and Race promptly bolted from the room, down the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door of the house. Jack hurried over to the tiny window, standing on his tiptoes to look out and watch Race run down the street into the sunset.

“Woah.” Albert commented, waving away the black smoke in the kitchen around them. “What’s wit’ ‘im?” 

Jack shook his head. “Dunno.” he set the pan down on the countertop and grabbed a spare towel, hitting Albert in the head with it. “If you’s gonna cook you’s gotta pay attention, knucklehead. You owe me a  nickel for them eggs you’s just wasted.”

Albert groaned, prying Romeo off him and standing to his feet. 

“Don’t got no nickels on me, Boss.” Albert whined, “Can I’s pay ya for ‘em tomorrow?” 

Jack rolled his eyes. “Fine, but you’s cleanin’ up ya own mess. I’s gotta go see where Racer’s off to.” 

Albert obliged and took the dish towel from Jack, promptly turning around and hitting Romeo with it, sparking another fight. 

Jack ignored them and hurried down the hall. 

“Is Racer okay?” Crutchie asked from where he sat on the only proper chair the house had, his bad foot propped up on a spare crate. “He was runnin’ out awful fast.” 

“I dunno. He didn’t say where he was goin’, did he?” Jack asked, and Crutchie shook his head. 

“Nah. He didn’t look right, Jackie.” 

“I know.” Jack frowned, “I’ll go lookin’ for ‘im. Think you can hold down the fort for me?” 

Crutchie gave Jack a little two fingered salute. “You got’s it.” 

Jack searched all over Lower Manhattan for his friend. He called his name, searched every one of Race’s usual hangout spots, his favorite selling spots, and even the alleyways where he knew Race occasionally escaped to when he needed a break. It was getting dark and Jack was starting to get properly worried when there was still no sign of him. He didn’t want to give up on him, but it was getting later and the temperature was starting to drop and Jack didn’t bring a coat with him, so he headed back to the lodging house, hoping that Race had already made his way back. 

Jack was relieved to find Race curled up in the alley next to the lodging house, his head in his knees. He looked so small, Jack realized. Like the scared little kid that he remembered from The Refuge. Jack shuffled his feet so Race wouldn’t be startled and met his eyes as Race looked up at him.

“Hey,” Jack said, sitting down next to Race.

“Hey.”

“You okay, kiddo?” Jack looked his friend over warily. “I’s been out lookin’ for you for an hour, what’sa matter?” 

Race shrugged, leaning back against the brick wall of the lodging house. “Nothin’, I’s fine.” 

“You’s ain’t fine.” Jack insisted, “If you was, I wouldn’ta been out lookin’ for ya.” 

Race’s shoulders tensed. “Don’t need no one out lookin’ for me.” he said snippily, “Go back inside, Kelly.” 

Jack sighed. “Race…” he looked the kid over again and hesitated. Race looked stressed, for such a young kid Jack could tell he’d seen a lot of hell. But to be fair, so had he. At least they were in it together. “You wanna talk ‘bout it?” 

Race shook his head, but after a few moments of silence he asked a question, his voice weak. “You put out the fire, right?” 

“Yeah,” Jack assured him quickly, “Yeah, yeah. It wa’nt a big thing, I promise ya.” 

“Didja yell at Albert?” Race asked, attempting a smirk.

“I did.” Jack snorted. He thought a moment. “You’s got a prob’lm with fires, Racetrack?” 

Race nodded once and Jack nodded in understanding. 

“You know’s that’s somethin’ we might see a lot of in them headlines,” Jack said carefully, “‘s that okay?” 

Race shrugged again. “Guess so.” 

“You just don’ like ‘em.” 

“Nah.” Race shook his head. “I…” he shifted uncomfortably next to his friend. “I got jumpy an’ couldn’t breathe too good so’s I ran, an’ I shouldn’ta. Sorry, Jack.” 

“No sorry’s needed, Racer. How about’s we be more careful in the kitchen, yeah? I don’t wantcha to have ta run from us.” 

Race smiled a little. “I wouldn’ta been gone too long,” he teased, starting to feel better. “I got’s papes to sell.” 

“Right, right.” Jack smirked. “You wanna go in now? Gettin’ cold.” 

Race nodded. “Yeah.” 

“Ya ain’t gonna bolt again in the middle ‘a the night an’ make me chase you through Manhatt’n, are ya?” Jack teased as he started inside the building, Race following. 

“Nah,” Race laughed. “I’ll stay’s put.” 

“Good.” Jack gently clapped Race on the back. “An’ if you need it, I’m here’s for ya, ‘kay?” 

Race nodded. “‘Kay. Thanks, Jackie.” 

Jack gave Race a smile but dropped the subject and left him alone as he went back inside the boy’s floor of the lodging house. Jack was casual about it, but kept an eye on Racetrack the rest of the evening, and even got up once during the night to double-check that his friend was doing alright. He made a mental note of things he now knew about Race that he was pretty sure no one else did. Jack had a mental list like this for pretty much all of his closest friends, so he could protect them if need be. 

Race didn’t like lightning, and he didn’t like fires. 

*

He was fourteen when he picked up a new habit. After winning a box of fancy cigars in a card game by the docks down by Sheepshead, Race learned that fires weren’t as terrifying when he could control them. He’d gotten into the habit of lighting matches just to watch them burn down to his fingertips, blowing them out before they touched his skin. He was conquering his fears, bit by bit. The first time he actually lit one of the expensive cigars from his box he was surprised at how  _ good _ it felt. Jack had told him (repeatedly) that smoking couldn’t be good for you, but Race decided if it was something that helped calm him down when he started to feel jittery or nervous, then he didn’t care. 

Soon, Race always had a cigar with him. Either in his shirt pocket or typically in his mouth. Even unlit, the taste of the cigar made him feel relaxed and in control. Whenever he was stressed or nervous, the cigars would make him feel better. Chewing on them, tasting them, smoking them, it all calmed him down. Race’s precious box of corona cigars quickly became his most prized possession and he warned the other boys in the house if they dared touch them, he’d soak ‘em faster than they could say they’s sorry. 

Race was slowly becoming more and more confident. He was a great paper salesman, an even better gambler, and was rising in the ranks of the Manhattan newsboys. Jack was their official-unofficial leader, and Race was solidifying his place as second in command. He liked having the responsibility, he liked helping the younger boys when they needed it, and he liked being one of the the older kids, calling the shots for once. But as he gained more responsibility and confidence, he also grew more reckless. When he wasn’t sellin’ papes, Race could be found betting on the ponies down at the Sheepshead Races, or playing cards with his buddies in Brooklyn.

For the first time in maybe ever, Racetrack Higgins was pretty content. After struggling and scraping by for so many years, he figured it was about damn time.

*

He was fifteen and settled into his routine. Race’s life was easy now, days full of selling papers, evenings full of gambling and goofing off with his buddies. He smoked less, but still carried cigars on him at almost all times. He was finally in a place where he’d outrun his past, for the most part. But even when there were bad storms that left him on edge, he had Jack, Crutchie, Specs, Romeo and Albert and all his other friends keeping an eye on him. He trusted them not to make fun of him when he admitted some time ago how much he hated the loud thunderstorms, especially when they were full of lightning. They never said a thing about it, but Race noticed that whenever the weather got nasty in Manhattan, he always had a friend by his side throughout the night. They refused to let him bunk alone when the weather turned bad. Jack would stay up with him and play cards until the storm passed. If the weather was still bad during the day, Jojo or Albert would sell with him so he wouldn’t be alone. 

It was nice to have a family again.

It was nice not having to be alone. 

Race didn’t tell the boys everything though, and so far only Jack knew about his fear of fires. And even Jack didn’t know everything. Like, why. Or that it wasn’t just fires themselves, but the smell of burning wood that hung in the air after and made Race’s throat feel like it was all stopped up. Or the sound of the fire sirens wailing and screaming all night that refused to let him sleep. 

But Race was old enough to deal with it on his own. He sat awake all night by himself and listened to the sirens screech and wail and fill his ears with bad memories and thoughts that he’d been trying to outrun for nearly a decade. He held his hands tightly over his ears as the night wore on, even long after the sirens had stopped, because the echoes were still there. 

He’d get through it. 

He always did.

He’d just be really tired in the morning.

*

He was seventeen and Manhattan had just seen the worst thunderstorm of the season. Race typically would’ve struggled through the storm alone, forcing himself not to bother any of his friends even though he would certainly be miserable. But for the first time in his life, dealing with a terrible storm wasn’t so bad. And for the first time since he was six, Race slept through the night during a storm. 

And it was all due to Spot Conlon. 

Race had known Spot Conlon for a long time. They’d first met when Race was a punk kid, fresh out of The Refuge, spending his time picking pockets and placing bets at Sheepshead. Spot was the one who told Race he oughta do somethin’ more than cause trouble on his turf, and after Spot’s cronies chased him out of Sheepshead for the fourth time, Race ran into Jack on the other side of the bridge and started working as a newsie. It was some time after that before Race went back to Brooklyn, and when he did, he quickly decided to become Spot’s friend, much to Spot’s dismay. 

But Anthony Racetrack Higgins was nothing if not charming, and Spot soon found himself protecting the annoying punk from Manhattan, and genuinely enjoying his company. As they got older, Spot came to find himself looking forward to Race’s twice-monthly card games with his boys. Before too long those twice-monthly games became once-weekly games. And then Spot gave permission for Race to start selling papes in Brooklyn too. He’d never admit that it was because he enjoyed Race’s company, but that’s definitely why Spot gave it his okay.

And then the Lower Manhattan boys decided to strike against Pulitzer. Race and Spot’s routine got interrupted. Jack Kelly showed up by the docks in Brooklyn asking for Spot’s help to take a stand, and Spot turned them down. He knew the gravity that carried, he knew that the other boroughs hinged their decisions on his, but Spot wanted to avoid conflict if he could. He wanted to protect his boys. Race included. Because Spot didn’t see Race as  _ Lower Manhattan _ . He saw Race as  _ Brooklyn _ . 

But Race disagreed. His loyalties were to Jack Kelly and the other Manhattan newsies, and Race was crushed when Spot didn’t back them up during the strike. Spot was crushed too, but only when he found out that Race got hurt. Spot quickly changed his tune and joined the strike. They got lucky, things worked out, and after that, Spot’s loyalties remained tied almost exclusively to Racetrack Higgins. 

Their relationship grew by leaps and bounds since then. They were now walking a very thin line between  _ friendship _ and  _ more than that _ . Last night, when Spot comforted Race during the lightning storm, promising he wouldn’t let anything happen to him, holding him carefully until Race fell asleep, that was definitely way past the line. 

And Race should hate that, right? He was supposed to. He was supposed to be appalled by it. Boys weren’t supposed to be feeling anything like this toward other boys. It was supposed to be wrong. Folks probably got locked up for stuff like this. 

But as Racetrack walked back across the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan before the sun was up, after having spent the night with Spot Conlon in Brooklyn, he couldn’t stop smiling. His heart  _ soared _ . He’d never felt happier. 

_ It could storm all day an’ night in New York an’ it wouldn’t matter none. _ Race thought to himself.  _ Spot Conlon’s got my back.  _ His grin stayed on his face even as the fog began to rise and the dreary day sprinkled a few raindrops from the still-dark sky. 

_ Spot Conlon is mine. _

Low thunder rolled in the distance, but Race didn’t even flinch. 

_ And I’m his. _

*

He was nineteen. Getting a little too old to be a newsie, but after Jack stopped living in the house and started working full-time as an illustrator for  _ The World _ , someone had to run the Manhattan boys. Race was the one for the job. Jack trusted him fully, and offered advice here and there whenever Racer asked for it. But now the boys looked to  _ Race _ for leadership and guidance, and it was a lot of work. Race’s escapades to Brooklyn were fewer and further between on account of being so busy in Manhattan, but he and good ole’ Spot Conlon still saw each other fairly often. Not as often as they had in the past, but still often. Spot had recently gotten a job working at the docks down in Brooklyn, passing the baton of running the Brooklyn newsies onto his buddy Hotshot. 

It’d been a few weeks since Race had seen Spot last. He would be lying if he said he didn’t miss his best friend, he did, terribly. He focused his energy on his boys though, ignoring the ache in his chest whenever he thought about how long it’d been since he’d seen Spot. Maybe he’d go down to Brooklyn this weekend, see how Spotty was doing with his new job. 

Race was always busy these days. Up with the sun, running the lodging house and keeping tabs on all the kids who lived there, making sure the younger kids were ready to work, double checking that the older boys weren’t getting into trouble, and solving disputes and problems left and right. Racetrack’s days as a carefree, reckless, sometimes-Brooklyn newsie were behind him, but that didn’t mean his heart still wasn’t on the other side of the bridge. 

“C’mon boys, let’s go, let’s go!” Race called out throughout the house as boys ran back and forth getting ready for the day. “We’s got papes ta sell!” 

Kids filed out the door and down the block to Newsie’s Square where they waited for the headlines to get put up. Race kept an eye on the younger kids playing marbles while they waited, leaning against a wagon with Albert standing next to him. They made small talk while they waited, both grinning as the whistle blew and the headline was written up on the board. 

The kids whooped and hollered as a good, action packed headline hit the board, and each of them hurried to get in line to buy their papers, scuffling to get in front of each other in line. Race should’ve been excited by a good headline too, but he was downright terrified. 

_ Massive Fire Burns Brooklyn Docks _

Race’s jaw dropped as he read the headline over and over again, the cigar falling right out of his mouth and dropping by his feet. He stared at the headline, gripping the cart behind him tightly, trying to keep himself from hyperventilating. He finally looked away, remembering to breathe, and bent to pick up his cigar, jamming it back into his mouth. 

“It’s gonna be a  _ good _ day t’day, Racer!” Elmer said cheerily, but Race pushed past him and through the crowd of kids and pulled a paper out of Buttons’ hands at the front of the line.

“Hey!” Buttons protested and Race shoved him away. “I was gonna sell that!” 

Race scanned the article quickly, only catching keywords before his eyes flooded with unwanted tears and he couldn’t breathe. There were too many people around him, too many sounds, too many voices, too many flames…

Race didn’t even realize he was running until he was halfway out of Manhattan, heading toward the Brooklyn Bridge. 

_ Please be okay Spotty, _ Race thought desperately,  _ I’ll kill ya if you’re dead. _

Race was out of breath by the time he reached the other end of the Brooklyn Bridge, eyes searching over Brooklyn’s coast. He could still smell the lingering scent of smoke from the fires. 

Race noticed people on the streets watching him as he panicked, and he realized quickly how out of place he must’ve looked. He tried to calm down so as to not attract attention to himself, but his brain was still on one track:  _ Find Spot _ .

Race was trembling by the time he reached the docks. Thick smoke still hung in the air and everything smelled burned, but most of the workers around were just going about their day like nothing had happened. There were folks working overtime cleaning everything up, but there were no fire sirens, no fire department, no more flames. 

But all Race could see was smoke and fire. And he didn’t see Spot. He wanted to ask someone where he was, if he was okay, where he’d be able to find him, but words weren’t coming out of his mouth, and Race had a strong feeling that if he tried to speak, he’d lose whatever composure he had left. 

It felt like an eternity before Race heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Racetrack?” 

Race spun around, pulling his cigar from his mouth and shoving it in his shirt pocket. 

“Whadda ya doin’ here?” Spot laughed, excited but confused to see his friend. 

“I…” Race tried to catch his breath, putting his hands on Spot’s shoulders as relief filled him. “ _ Spotty _ .” 

Spot’s eyes narrowed. “What’sa matter?” He frowned. “You look awful, Racer. Like you’s seen’a ghost.” 

Race’s hand shook as he gently pressed his palm against Spot’s cheek. “You’s okay.” he whispered.

Spot tensed and knocked Race’s hand away from his face quickly, glancing behind him. 

“ _ Race _ ,” Spot whispered, “Not here.” 

Race blinked, remembering where they were and what was happening and he took a few steps back, putting distance between them. 

“‘m sorry.” He choked. 

Spot shook his head, brows furrowed with concern. “What's goin’ on?”

Race was still trying to catch his breath and refrain from hyperventilating at the same time, leaving his breathing ragged and panicky. He shook his head and Spot frowned, looking around them again before he grabbed Race by the arm and tugged him to follow him to a nearby alleyway where they could have some sort of privacy. The second they were alone, Race impulsively lunged forward and wrapped Spot in a tight hug, which Spot very carefully returned. 

“Talk to me.” Spot insisted when they parted, putting his strong hands on Race’s slender shoulders. 

Race pulled the paper from his back pocket, showing it to Spot as if that explained everything. 

“Yeah?” Spot shook his head. “Good headline. You oughta be back in ‘hattan, sellin’ this.”

Race almost looked offended. “Spotty...I thought...I just...you...” he groaned, turning away and leaning his forehead against the wall behind him. 

“Geez Race, you didn't think  _ I  _ caught fire, didja?” Spot asked carefully, his voice serious. “Racer?”

Race whimpered and when he looked back to Spot his eyes were red with barely held back tears. 

“I just got  _ so scared _ , Spot,” Race whispered. “You...you  _ knows _ how I feels about fires an’ thinkin’ of you bein’ ‘round one that bad…all’s I knew’s you’s workin’ at the docks now, an’ seein’ that….” 

Spot shushed him, reaching for Race’s shaking hand and grabbing it tightly. 

“Hey, I’m alright.” Spot insisted. “Ain't nothin’ happened. Was a barge that caught fire. I wan’nt nowhere near it.”

Race nodded, trying to convince himself of Spot’s words. “Good. Good.” 

“Breathe, Racetrack.” Spot said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It’s fine.” 

“I can’t…” Race started, but choked on his words when they heard footsteps approaching the alley. Race and Spot separated, leaning on opposite walls from each other. Spot pulled his cap down over his face, crossing his arms. Race fiddled with his cigar, digging through his pockets for his matchbox, though the last thing he wanted to do right now was look at a flame, even if it was a tiny one. Spot nodded in greeting to the dock workman who walked past them, getting a nod in return. Once the workman was a safe distance away, Spot returned to Race’s side. 

“Did you  _ run _ here?” Spot asked quietly, looking Race over. 

Race nodded. “I...I had to make sure you was okay.” 

“‘m fine, Racer.” Spot reassured him, “Why you’s so upset?” 

“I…” Race looked away. “I couldn’t bear it, Spotty. If you’s died inna fire...I couldn’t do it.” 

“Ain’t no one died in that fire, Racetrack.” Spot insisted. 

“I know,” Race said quietly, “But  _ you _ ...I can’t lose ya, Spot. I lost  _ everythin’ _ in a fire an’ I can’t lose…” his voice caught and he sniffed back his emotions. “I couldn’t do it.” 

Spot’s hard expression softened just slightly as he rubbed Race’s back comfortingly. “You won’t lose me.” he said seriously, “Ya hear me?” 

“Ya can’t say that,” Race sniffed. “You’s don’t know.” 

“I do know.” Spot insisted. He gripped Race’s shoulder tight, his warm brown eyes meeting Race’s bright blue ones. “Tony, I promise you,” 

Race pulled from his grip, interrupting him. “ _ No _ .” he snapped, “No. You can’t  _ promise _ nothin’.” Race wiped at his nose. “Don’t be makin’ promises like that, Sean.”

Spot frowned, reaching for Race again. 

“I’s heard them promises before, Spot.” Race said, flinching away from Spot’s touch. “An’ ya ain’t in charge of keepin’ ‘em. I’s learned that the hard way.” 

Spot thought for a moment, trying to decide what to say to make Race feel better. Maybe this wasn’t something he could fix, maybe he just had to let Race ride it out and be there for him. What was it that Race had told him whenever they fought?  _ Just listen. Don’t fix everythin’. _

“You’s right.” Spot said carefully, “Ain’t no one can control that stuff.” he sighed. “But if it’s in my power, you know’s I ain’t goin’ nowhere, yeah?” 

Race nodded reluctantly. “Yeah.” He shuffled his feet, trying to calm down. His hands still felt jittery, and his heart was still thudding, but air was actually staying in his lungs now, and he could see clearly again. He was still trying to convince the rational part of his brain that Spot was here, and he was okay, and there was no reason to panic anymore. 

Spot glanced at his watch. “Listen, you’s oughta get back to Manhatt’n if you’s gonna sell anythin’ good. You’s already missed the mornin’ rush. Ya might make it back by noon if ya get goin’.” 

Race shook his head a little. “I...yeah.” he wiped at his nose. “You’s gotta work, dontcha? I shouldn’ta come an’ distracted ya, Spotty. ‘m sorry for overreactin’ an’-” 

Spot cut Race off by surprising him with a fast kiss to his cheek. Race’s eyes widened. 

“Stop it.” Spot said gently, putting his hand on Race’s shoulder again. “You’s fine, Racer. You had e’ry right ta be scared.” he let Race go and put some space between them again, just in case. “Wanna come back tonight? Stay the night like ya used ta?” Spot asked, making Race smile. 

“You know I wanna,” he said quietly. “But I gotta take care’a the kids in Manhatt’n an’-” 

“I know,” Spot nodded, “I remember those days,” he smirked. “Runnin’ a gang o’ newsies ain’t no easy job.” 

Race thought a moment. “‘s really been too long since we had time togetha’,” he said, “Maybe one night won’t hurt none.” 

Spot smiled a rare smile. “See ya at sundown?” 

Race nodded. “Sundown.” 

Spot hesitated as they started from the alleyway to go their separate ways. “You gonna be okay?” Spot asked, and Race nodded, cigar back in his mouth. Spot didn’t miss that Race lit the cigar this time. 

“Yeah. You’s okay, so I’s okay.” he gave Spot a smile, cigar between his teeth. “See ya ‘round, Conlon.” 

Spot smiled back. “Get outta here, Higgins.” 

Race took a big puff of the cigar and let the smoke fill his lungs and calm him down. He watched Spot walk back toward his station, away from the scorched docks that were now closed off. Race waited until he couldn’t see Spot anymore before he started back to Manhattan. 

Race looked down at the paper in his hand and took a breath, starting toward the bridge. He sold the paper only a few minutes later and focused on what he had to do to get through the rest of the day until he could go back to Brooklyn. 

_ Stop shakin’. _

_ Sell some papes. _

_ Find some food. _

_ Take care of the boys. _

_ Go back to Brooklyn. _

He could get through the day. He always did. And this time, he wouldn't have to do it completely alone.

*

**Author's Note:**

> i promise that race is actually my favorite and I don't live purely to hurt his feelings even though that's what it looks like via my fic track record.
> 
> i'd love to hear what you think!! hit me up in the comments or on my tumblr @gracetrack-higgins!! thank you so much for reading!


End file.
